


Worth a Thousand Words

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Doggy Style, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marking, Nude Modeling, Painting, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Present Tense, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 23:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7242751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft asked Greg to model nude for him, he didn't actually expect it to end up like this. But maybe he should have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth a Thousand Words

Mycroft Holmes paints. It’s not something most people know. He’s aware he’s not the best, that even if he had the inclination, his work probably wouldn’t hang in anyone’s gallery.

But it’s something he’s done for quite some time, something that relaxes him, that lets him focus on details without the consequences being global.

Very few people know about it. Greg is one of them. He’s got a painting of the London skyline in his flat, a bit of a rough piece, but it’s obvious what it is to anyone who knows the city as well as they do.

Today, though, Mycroft has something else in his mind to paint. He takes a breath and steps into the bedroom. Greg is reclined on the bed, nude, save a strategically placed corner of sheet. He smiles at Mycroft, utterly at ease in his skin in a way that nearly makes Mycroft jealous.

Stepping to the canvas, he almost feels more exposed than Greg. He hasn’t let anyone watch him paint since he took his last class in uni. But this is Gregory and Mycroft knows that even if it ends up as nothing more than a few blotches, he will love it.

Taking another breath, Mycroft picks up his first brush and gets to work. He already knows the nooks and crannies of Greg’s skin, the way he tastes, the way he feels moving over him. His hot breath in his ear, but also the easy way he holds his hand on the sofa, the warmth of an arm around his shoulder when he’s had a bad day.

Greg stays quiet, still smiling as he watches Mycroft work. It’s one of the many things Mycroft appreciates about him. He always seems to know when to be quiet and when to speak. It’s a part of why he gets on so well with Sherlock, but equally applies to the elder brother.

Mycroft’s brow furrows in concentration as he works, listening to the sweep of his brushes against the canvas, only occasionally glancing at Greg. Really, he memorized the scene as soon as he’d stepped into the room, but it’s still reassuring to double check. He knows that here he doesn’t have to be perfect, but it’s a hard habit to leave behind.

Cleaning a brush, Mycroft takes a step back and compares his work to the visage before him. He could pick out every flaw in his own work, every detail he has wrong, but he doesn’t, not now. 

With a slight nod, he picks up another brush and begins to fill in details. A freckle on Greg’s hip, the way his elbow creases. Greg shifts just slightly, and Mycroft can hear the sheet moving against his skin. After a few more brushstrokes, Mycroft looks around the canvas and gives a slight smile. “Are you enjoying yourself that much, Gregory?”

“Well, I am naked. In bed. And you are wearing a suit,” Greg’s grin turned cocky. “Hard not to.”

“Mm, indeed. And I’m always wearing a suit.”

“And you’ve always turned me on.” Greg lets a little growl slide into his voice.

Mycroft blushes and looks back at his canvas.

“Don’t you ever worry about getting paint on your clothes?” asks Greg.

“It’s an oil painting, not a Jackson Pollock,” Mycroft says, adding some details to Greg’s eyebrows.

“Well, if you _did_ get some paint on yourself, I might have to take them off of you.”

Mycroft shakes his head and rinses off his brush. “You’re incorrigible. And that was terrible.”

“But you like it.” Greg watches him, licking his lips.

With a sigh, Mycroft puts his palette and brushes down. “You’re distracting.” 

“Should I stop?” asks Greg, smile slipping.

“No.” Mycroft steps around the easel and moves towards the bed, prowling.

Greg smiles again and scoots back, letting the sheet fall away. “That’s not painting.”

“Not at all.” Mycroft removes his suit coat and climbs onto the bed, moving gracefully up for a kiss.

“You’ve got some paint on your fingers,” Greg notes as Mycroft pulls away. He holds Mycroft’s hand and gently wipes the paint away with the sheet. Mycroft’s fingers are long and slender. Greg’s called them elegant on more than one occasion, and they lay in stark contrast to Greg’s more workmanlike hands.

Still grinning, Greg reaches up and runs his thumb along the seam of Mycroft’s lips. “You can smile, love. Just us here.”

Mycroft turns his head and kisses the pad of Greg’s thumb, watching his lover’s eyes grow even darker. 

He can feel further evidence of Greg’s arousal beneath him, knows that Greg likes the drag of his suits against his bare skin, and likes even more to be the one to expose Mycroft, to slide buttons free and push and pull clothes aside until at last Mycroft lies naked beneath him, always panting a bit by that point, and well aware that the heat in Greg’s eyes is only for him.

True to form, Greg’s hands slide down Mycroft’s waistcoat and slips open the buttons. He must see something in Mycroft’s gaze because he stops. “What?”

“I knew you were going to do that,” says Mycroft.

Greg rolls his eyes and suddenly flips them over. “Deducing me again, Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft gasps as he lands on his back. “Always.”

“Right. Time for you to stop thinking so much.” He tugs Mycroft’s tie free and tosses it aside, before opening his top two buttons and leaning in to suck a mark on Mycroft’s throat, just below the collar.

Mycroft moans, eyes fluttering shut. By the time Greg pulls away again, his shirt is open and Greg’s hands are teasing his nipples. “Unfair,” murmures Mycroft.

“But you like it.” Greg leans down to kiss his lips, slipping his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth as he pushes his shirt off his shoulders, along with his waistcoat. 

Mycroft allows Greg to move him and simply toss his clothes on the floor. The last time he tried to intervene and at least move them to the dresser, Greg had hauled him back into bed and worked him open until he was begging. Not that it was an entirely useful deterrent.

“I do like it,” says Mycroft as Greg pulls back and reaches for his belt. “From you, anyway.”

“Good,” Greg tugs his trousers down and kisses one of his pale thighs. “Bloody gorgeous you are. Legs for miles, those freckles… you drive me wild, always have.” Mycroft shakes his head as Greg tosses his trousers, shoes and socks aside. “I can’t paint, but I should take photographs,” says Greg. “I don’t have your perfect memory. Though that arse should be memorialized in oils.”

“Not hardly,” grumbled Mycroft, reaching up and running his hands down Greg’s arms.

“Very much so,” insisted Greg, kissing his nose and squeezing his arse at the same time.

Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh, swatting at him. “Gregory! Really.”

“Truly.” Greg pecks him on the lips, smiling warmly as he raises his head again and meets his gaze.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. Greg reaches up and cups his cheek, running his thumb along his cheekbone, as if there was so much he wanted to say, and just couldn’t find the right words. Mycroft could read it all in his eyes. With a soft smile on his face, he leans up to kiss him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Greg kisses him again. “Now, where was I.” He let his eyes roam Mycroft’s body.

“Ravishing me, I presume,” says Mycroft.

“Ah right. Ravishing. Silly me for getting sidetracked by your gorgeous eyes.”

“I thought it was my arse that was distracting,” says Mycroft.

“All of it is.” Greg moves and tugs down Mycroft’s pants, leaning in to lick his cock.

“Isn’t that skipping straight to dessert?” gasps Mycroft.

“Well, I’ve been accused of being a naughty boy before,” Greg says, reaching over for the lube from the nightstand.

Mycroft squeezes his hip as he leans over him. “Cheeky, at the very least.”

Greg steals another kiss as he nudges Mycroft’s legs apart.

Mycroft runs his fingers through Greg’s hair as his lover kisses his belly and moves farther down. He sucks another mark into Mycroft’s hip as he gently teases his entrance. Mycroft arches up against him, scraping his manicured nails against Greg’s skull.

Greg looks up at him through his eyelashes as he presses a finger inside. Mycroft barely remembers to breathe, caught as much by the heated gaze as by the touch. “Beautiful.”

“I ain’t that hard on the eyes,” Greg says with a wink.

“Modest too,” Mycroft cups the back of his neck and draws him up for another kiss.

“You have no room to talk when it comes to modesty, Mister Holmes.” Greg says against his lips before kissing him.

“Well, I am the smartest one in the room.”

Greg nibbles his lower lip. “Smartest and the sexiest. But also the one about to be buggered within an inch of his life.”

“Oh? Is that a promise?”

“Very much so,” Greg growls. He leans in to Mycroft’s ear. “How should I take you? On your back? On your knees? Could do my best to put a hole in the wall with the headboard.”

“Expensive wallpaper, and for that matter, expensive bed frame,” Mycroft tries to twist his head away, only for Greg to bite down on his earlobe, sending an extra spike of pleasure down his spine. 

Greg moves back and smacks Mycroft’s hip. “On your knees, then.”

“I do hope you’re not planning on ruining my wallpaper,” says Mycroft as he shifts to hands and knees.

“Just the sheets. Again.”

“Not ruined. I pay for a very good laundry service.” Mycroft settles into position.

“Worth it, though?” 

“Very much so. They even iron.” Mycroft glances off to the side.

“Quit worrying about your clothes on the floor.” Greg chuckles and puts a hand on his lower back to guide him into place. “You should be more worried about this.” 

Mycroft can hear Greg slick his cock and shivers. “Not worried; anticipating.”

Bracing himself on his elbows, Mycroft catches a hint of Greg’s shampoo on his pillow. He groans softly as Greg pushes into him, moving slowly until he can catch Mycroft’s hips and begin to thrust.

It’s all Mycroft can do to keep himself in place as Greg goes hard. He works a hand down to his own cock, letting Greg’s thrusts push him through his grip. 

Greg groans behind him. “Yeah. Good,” he mutters. 

“Harder,” demands Mycroft.

Greg squeezes his hips and obeys. The sound of his breathing is harsh, thumbs digging into Mycroft’s skin. He likes seeing those bruises the next day, reminding him, making him shiver with remembered desire.

Mycroft lets go of his cock and braces one hand against the headboard, panting as he feels the drag of Greg’s cock.

The movement seems to spur Greg on. Mycroft’s eyes are closed, feeling the bed shake, listening to the sound of skin on skin. His cock aches to be touched, but he doesn’t dare move his hands.

Greg groans as he fills Mycroft, holding himself deep inside. He folds over him, kissing his shoulder, sweaty and panting. Mycroft reaches back and runs his hand through Greg’s hair, ignoring his own needs, knowing Greg will take care of him in the end.

When Greg’s heartbeat slows he kneels back, taking Mycroft with him onto his lap. Greg wraps one arm around Mycroft, pressing him to his chest. The other hand wraps around Mycroft’s cock.

Mycroft moans, letting his head drop back against Greg’s shoulder.

“Bloody gorgeous, you are,” growls Greg, teasing one of his nipples. “Gorgeous and brilliant and mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” moans Mycroft, eyes closed and hands by his side as Greg strokes him.

Greg’s free hand moves up to cup Mycroft’s neck. He kisses his throat and nips his shoulder. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

Mycroft gives a short nod and shifts in Greg’s lap, so close already. Nothing feels as amazing as this, pressed against Greg’s chest, feeling his heartbeat, filled with his cock.

Greg twists his wrist and Mycroft is undone, crying out as he comes, shaking in Greg’s arms.

“Good,” coos Greg, stroking him through it. “So good for me.”

Mycroft stays where he is for a few long minutes as Greg presses a hand over his heart. Finally he raises his head and cracks his eyes open. “Did the wallpaper survive?”

“Yes, but you’re going to want to switch out that pillowcase.”

“Isn’t that your side of the bed anyway?” Mycroft makes a face as Greg carefully pulls out. He ungracefully flops over onto the clean side of the bed.

Greg chuckles and goes to get something to clean them up. Mycroft watches him, seeing him pause by the easel to look. “You really are pretty good,” he says.

“In painting I am barely average. Even I can’t do everything exceptionally.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” says Greg from the bathroom. He reappears a moment later and kisses Mycroft as he cleans him. Then he tosses the cloth at the loo and slides into bed, spooning around behind him.

“Isn’t this my side of the bed?” asks Mycroft, settling into his arms.

“Mine’s dirty, besides, this bed’s big enough.” Greg kisses his cheek.

“I should probably clean up the paint, and pick up my clothes, and God only knows where that flannel landed.” 

Greg puts a hand on his hip to stop him from getting up. “In a little bit.”

Mycroft sighs. “I suppose you’re right.” He settles back down again

“I know I am.” Greg kisses the back of his neck and holds him tight, listening as Mycroft drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to beltainefaire, Irrevocably_Sherlocked and Olivia for reading as I wrote and the beta! You can find me on tumblr at [merindab.tumblr.com](http://merindab.tumblr.com)


End file.
